


With His Educated Eyes (And His Head Between My Thighs)

by skarlatha



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anonymous Sex, Glory Hole, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex as Relaxation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/pseuds/skarlatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton and Jefferson are working late the night before their second Cabinet Battle, and Hamilton takes a short break to go find some stress relief at the gay bar down the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With His Educated Eyes (And His Head Between My Thighs)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michelle_A_Emerlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/gifts).



> PSA: I’m obviously not suggesting that you should go out and find a glory hole at a gay bar, but if you do, always use a condom. Do as Mama Skari says, not as she writes. 
> 
> A small portion of the dialogue in here includes direct quotes from “[Cabinet Battle #2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0HZUatZtXI)” from _Hamilton_ , and those lines belong to the brilliant Lin-Manuel Miranda and are only borrowed here. Lin is a legitimate genius and we do not deserve him, y’all. Title from Halsey’s “[Coming Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXO77hJGKA)” because come on, if there’s a better HamJeffs song I’ll eat my hat. Infinite thanks to [CarburetorCastiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CarburetorCastiel/pseuds/CarburetorCastiel) for beta-ing this fic! You rock!
> 
> This is for [Michelle_A_Emerlind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind) to celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the U.S. Coast Guard on August 4, 1790. I’m a couple of days late posting it but I hope she can forgive me.

**To:** President’s Cabinet Mailing List

 **From:** George Washington (president@us.gov)

 **Re:** Meeting Agenda for Tomorrow Morning: August 5, 8:00 a.m.

The cabinet meeting for tomorrow morning will proceed as follows:

  1. Call to Order (Speaker: G. Washington)
  2. Reading of the Minutes from Previous Meeting, without commentary this time (Speaker: T. Jefferson)
  3. Vote to Accept Minutes from Previous Meeting, on the understanding that voting to agree that this is indeed what happened last week doesn’t necessarily indicate support of the decisions made therein (Speaker: T. Jefferson)
  4. Hold for Vice President’s Report, TBD (Speaker: J. Adams)
  5. Discussion of the Issue on the Table Regarding Potential Involvement in France’s Upcoming War with England: Argument in Favor of Providing Aid and Troops (Speaker: T. Jefferson)
  6. Discussion of the Issue on the Table Regarding Potential Involvement in France’s Upcoming War with England: Argument in Favor of Neutrality (Speaker: A. Hamilton)
  7. Presidential Decision on the Matter, not subject to congressional approval (Speaker: G. Washington)
  8. Meeting Adjournment, please before lunch this time because Martha is making chili (Speaker: G. Washington)



 

* * *

 

 

Hamilton sits back in his chair, raking his hair back away from his temples and glaring quite ferociously at the obnoxious red squiggle underneath the word “Pensylvania” on his screen. It’s spelled wrong, he knows it is, but it’s creeping toward 1 a.m. and his brain is just too fried to make sense of it.

He’s not sleepy, of course. Over the years, he’s trained himself to get by on so little sleep that he really, strictly speaking, shouldn’t be able to survive it for long periods of time (“The fact that you’re alive is a miracle,” Dr. Schuyler had told him, her lovely black eyes narrowed in concern, and Hamilton had tried very hard to get an entire five hours of sleep that night so she wouldn’t look so damn worriedevery time he came in for a check-up), and tonight’s no exception. But his mind is racing, moving too quickly to settle on any one thought for long enough to write it down even at his insanely fast typing speed, and somewhere in the bustle, his brain has apparently decided to delete the spelling of state names.

There’s a hideous popping sound from the office across from his, and Hamilton cranes his neck to see Jefferson sitting at his desk with his arms above his head, stretching luxuriously and letting out a little moaning sound as his back muscles pop back into place. Hamilton attributes the shiver that runs down his own spine to discomfort at the sound of backs popping instead of--well, instead of whatever else it might be, but his brain hops away from that very quickly too.

“Go home,” he calls out, very determinedly going back to his keyboard and starting a new paragraph--fuck Pensylvania for now, he thinks--and Jefferson snorts.

“ _You_ go home,” Jefferson shoots back. “Your typing sounds like a fucking machine gun going off. No wonder Washington’s had to replace your laptop twice in the last year.”

Hamilton leans over again and glares at Jefferson through their two open doorways separated by a conference table in the center of the larger room. “If only you had someplace else to go besides here, then, so you wouldn’t have to hear it. _Oh wait_.”

“My books aren’t in my apartment and I need them,” Jefferson snaps. “That’s not a problem for you since your ideas are so staggeringly idiotic that no amount of sources could help you, so you’re the one who should leave.”

“I don’t have anything to eat at my house.”

“And you do here?”

Hamilton huffs out a frustrated breath and slams his desk drawer open, grabbing at one of the dozens of protein bars he keeps bringing to work for breakfast and then abandoning in favor of the achingly French pastries Lafayette insists on providing in the break room. He holds the bar aloft and Jefferson laughs.

“Jesus, you’re a trainwreck,” Jefferson stage-mumbles, then stands up from his desk and stretches again, his plum-colored button-up shirt stretching over his muscular shoulders and his perfectly-proportioned chest. “I do need coffee and a sandwich, though. So I’m gonna go find some food, and then I’ll be back so don’t turn out the lights when you leave.”

Hamilton waves the protein bar at him dismissively and bends his head back over his laptop, suffering through another few barely-coherent sentences as Jefferson poofs up his hair a bit and then shuffles out of the office. The room quiets to an almost painful level, and the minutes rush by… or maybe they crawl? Hamilton’s brain is flickering around so fast that his concept of time is in the shitter and he’s pretty sure that he spelled “Virginia” wrong even if no red squiggle has appeared and if he did that, Jefferson will never let him hear the end of it, but he can’t concentrate well enough to fix it, and for some reason his dick takes this opportunity to suddenly demand attention.

He glares at the tent forming in his dress pants and he’s just about ready to pull up some YouTube videos of surgical procedures or the life cycle of an amoeba so that he can distract himself away from sexy thoughts when he realizes… the office is quiet. Jefferson is gone, no one else is here, even the janitors finished their overnight duties over an hour ago, and besides, if he shuts his door, nobody will have to know. Wax on, wax off, done in less than five minutes if he twists his wrist just right, and then his mind will blank out for a blissful few seconds and then hopefully reboot into something more controlled than the misspelled chaos currently howling in his brain.

He gets up to close the door, and during the five steps it takes him to get to the doorway, he remembers something very interesting.

There’s a gay bar just down the street that’s open until 2 a.m. Said gay bar, he’s fairly certain, has a glory hole.

He’s halfway down the stairs before he even realizes he’s made a decision.

 

* * *

 

 

Barely ten minutes later, Alex is sliding into a booth made of black painted wood and closing the door behind himself. The other side of the booth was already occupied when he arrived, which is very good because he’d really like to be in and out before Jefferson gets back to the office with his coffee and notices that Hamilton is gone, which would constitute defeat as far as Hamilton is concerned and he certainly can’t have that. He unbuckles his pants and lets them fall around his ankles, his cock springing free and, if he’s being honest with himself, already halfway there because a combination of Jefferson stretching so fucking luxuriously and then--in a completely unrelated incident--Hamilton’s dick spontaneously getting hard has sped everything along toward orgasm quite nicely.

He sticks his dick in the hole.

For a moment, nothing happens. Hamilton waggles his hips a little, hoping the movement will get the other man’s attention. There’s a breathy chuckle and then a deep, soft “[damn](https://youtu.be/Yifg3RyrEso?t=13)” from the other side of the wall that puts a grin on Alex’s face. Unlike pompous rich assholes like Thomas Jefferson, Alex hasn’t ever felt the need to brag about his cock size, but he’s not stupid. He knows he’s well-endowed. Not quite to the point of _hung like a horse_ or anything, but enough that no one’s ever complained, and the mystery man on the other side of the wall seems pleased enough by it so Alex will take the compliment and run with it.

But then he feels a warm, wet tongue run up the underside of his cock, and his racing thoughts stutter and slow for a moment, coalescing into one brilliant, sparkling _god yes_ that for one blessed moment pushes all thoughts of revolutions and paragraphs and infuriatingly handsome Virginian cabinet members out of his head.

And the revolutions and the paragraphs manage to stay out of his thoughts when the mystery man’s lips close around the tip of his dick and start sliding toward the base, his tongue pressing against the vein running up the bottom of the shaft as he goes, but for some reason the Virginian creeps slowly back in, taking shape in his mind’s eye as the man on his knees on the other side of the wall.

There’s no shame in admitting that Jefferson is hot, Hamilton thinks as he thrusts forward a bit, pressing his hips against the cool wood to get his dick as far down the mystery man’s throat as possible. After all, Lucifer was said to be the most beautiful of all the angels and yet he turned out to be, quite literally, the devil, so it makes sense that Jefferson would follow in those footsteps. But damn, does the man have to have lips like that, wide and constantly twisted into an insufferable smirk that never fails to send a surge of heat through Hamilton’s blood that he’s so far been studiously mis-identifying as rage?

He bets that Jefferson would be good at this, that those sexy lips would look good stretched around his cock, that the talented tongue that’s always spitting insults and comebacks at him would be flicking up and down his shaft like this, fast and precise and so damn perfect that it makes his knees feel weak. Hamilton gasps as the man takes him in almost all the way, then slams his hands against the black varnish of the wall as the man starts to hum around him, the vibrations seeping through his skin like venom and antidote mixed together, death and life and power and submission and any number of other paradoxes all joined together like the way words flow from a pen.

Fucking Jefferson’s mouth like this would probably be the death of Hamilton, he thinks. The combination of lust and hatred, of disagreement and respect, of the way Thomas’s eyes sparkle when they’re in the midst of a heated, scholarly debate… he’s not sure he could do that and live to tell about it. Add those feelings to the way Thomas would look on his knees, eyes closed with his stupidly long eyelashes against his cheeks while he moans around Hamilton’s dick, and Hamilton is certain that if he just had that experience and a fleet of ships to protect the country’s sea trade routes, he could die a happy man.

Thomas sucks harder, hollowing out his cheeks around Hamilton and humming again, and Hamilton white-knuckles the wall, curling his fingers against the wood like it’s made of curls, like twisting them there would drag a groan of pleasure-pain out of Jefferson’s throat. And afterwards they would go back to being rivals, back to pretending to hate one another outside of the political arena even though with a tongue flicking against the slit at the tip of his cock, it’s pretty difficult to remember exactly why he hates Thomas. _Jefferson_ , sure. But not _Thomas_ , not the man who drops his political persona at the door of bars when the cabinet goes for after-work drinks, the man who drove six hours in the middle of the night to get his pet bird to a vet that could fix his wing, the man who once brought Hamilton soup when he had the flu and couldn’t make it out of his apartment to feed himself.

No, _Thomas_ is a good man, an educated man, a man who’s firm in his beliefs even if Hamilton never agrees with those beliefs, and so it’s Thomas’s mouth that Hamilton closes his eyes and fucks, Thomas’s hair that Hamilton imagines tangling his fingers in, Thomas’s strong arms that will catch him when he finds his release and lets his knees give way underneath him.

He bites his lip as his thighs begin to tremble, as his pulse pounds in his throat, as his breath begins to come in shallow puffs from lungs that won’t properly accept the oxygen he’s taking in, and he thrusts into the mouth on the other side of the hole with one long, smooth movement and comes, nails scraping at the wood under his fingertips and Thomas’s lips in his mind, teasing every last drop from Hamilton like it’s holy communion, and it’s Thomas’s name he gasps out into the heavy air of the booth before he pulls back, collapsing back onto the bench seat against the opposite wall and draping an arm over his eyes as he wills his heart rate to return to something approaching normal.

“I just need a second,” he mumbles, chest heaving with exertion, lips already tingling at the chance to wrap around another man’s cock and pretend it’s Thomas’s. “Just give me one second.”

There’s no response except for the quiet click of the door on the other side of the booth, barely audible over the pounding bass that he’s just beginning to notice again coming from the main floor of the bar. Hamilton frowns and sits up, then squints through the hole in the wall even though that’s breaking the code of the glory hole.

But no one is there, and Hamilton sighs and sits back, pushing his hair behind his ears and swallowing down the disappointment that the moment is over.

 

* * *

 

 

He beats Jefferson back to the office and has just enough time to settle back in his chair and choke down the protein bar before he hears the outer door open and Jefferson come walking back inside. Hamilton takes a deep breath and pastes on his very best ‘I was not just getting sucked off in a gay bar, why ever would you think that, that’s crazy’ expression just as Jefferson steps inside his office and tosses a McDonald’s bag on Hamilton’s desk.

“I want to hand you your ass tomorrow in the cabinet meeting because I’m better than you, not because you’re starving to death. Eat the burger,” Jefferson says, his voice strangely tight and strained.

Hamilton pokes at the bag. “What is it?”

“Quarter Pounder, no onions, and apple slices instead of fries.” Jefferson leans against the doorframe for a second, then seems to rethink the casual posture and stands up straight again. “Never let it be said I don’t know my enemy.”

Hamilton snorts and opens the bag, pulling out the apple slices and tearing the plastic bag open. He munches on one, raising an eyebrow at Jefferson’s attire, which is noticeably less pristine than it had been when he left the office to get food. “You get mugged on the way to McDonald’s?” Hamilton asks, gesturing at the wrinkled shirt, now untucked, the dirt on the knees of his pants, the significantly less-coiffed hair than before.

“Fuck you,” Jefferson snaps. “Save your bullshit insults for the meeting.”

“You’re on,” Hamilton says, and Jefferson stomps back to his office to continue working on his argument for the morning meeting.

Something flutters at the back of Hamilton’s brain, something important, some puzzle pieces that it’s starting to look like _might_ fit together in a surprising configuration, but there’s an argument to be won, another chance to make Jefferson look like a bumbling idiot in front of Washington, and that’s got to take precedence over whatever strange picture is beginning to form somewhere deep inside Hamilton’s thoughts.

He bends his head over the computer and resumes typing.

 

* * *

 

 

Hamilton drags himself back to the office the next morning running on three hours of sleep and a couple of Red Bulls, and Jefferson is already there, looking so rested and put-together that it makes Hamilton want to punch him. They’d left the office at the same time at around 4 a.m., so Hamilton knows that Jefferson hadn’t gotten any more sleep than he had, and it’s just unfair that Jefferson still looks like a functional human being while Hamilton has bags under his eyes that he’d have to count as carry-on luggage at an airport, that Jefferson is sitting at his own desk with his feet up, calmly sipping a latte and listening to NPR while Hamilton contemplates just having an IV line put in his arm so that he can directly inject caffeine into his veins as he rushes to re-draft the last few lines of his argument before the meeting.

At 7:55, Jefferson picks up his laptop and walks out of his office, slides gracefully into a chair at the conference table and chats amiably with James Madison and Henry Knox while Hamilton frantically finishes up his own speech, and at 8:01 Washington calls out, “Hamilton! We need to start!” and Jefferson looks up and gives Hamilton a condescending smirk that boils his blood, and this time he’s pretty sure that the heat he feels is actually rage and not lust.

Well, a bit of lust, he guesses. He did, after all, have a vivid sex fantasy of the man while some other guy sucked him off last night. But really, the lust factor is small compared to the rage factor, and so Hamilton shoots Jefferson a black glare and shuffles out to the table, slumping into his seat and pointedly ignoring the carefully neutral look on Washington’s face as the President silently judges him for lack of punctuality.

Washington calls the meeting to order and passes out bottled water to those present, and the minutes are read and voted on with surprisingly little fanfare other than a few exaggerated sighs and eye-rolls that, try as he might, Hamilton just can’t keep inside himself. As usual, Adams isn’t present, so they move to skip his place on the agenda and move forward with--

“The issue on the table,” Washington intones. “France is on the verge of war with England. Do we provide aid and troops to our French allies, or do we stay out of it? Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”

Jefferson unfolds himself out of his chair with such lanky grace that Hamilton’s mouth starts to water, his mind slipping back to the night before. The problem with glory holes, he realizes, is that you don’t have any visual memories to contradict the fantasies, and so in some ways it really does feel as if it was Jefferson who sucked him off with such skill and enthusiasm, Jefferson whose voice had so briefly broken the glory hole code of silence to utter one word of approval, Jefferson who had fled the booth rather than wait around for reciprocation.

But this isn’t the time to think about that. Hamilton forces himself to focus on Jefferson’s infuriating, staggeringly ridiculous argument rather than on the way his tongue moves as he speaks, the way his biceps fill out the sleeves of his dress shirt--brown today, but still fitted and, in Hamilton’s opinion, moderately obscene with the way the fabric stretches over his shoulders.

The messenger icon on Hamilton’s screen flashes with a new message from Henry Knox asking about the treaty Jefferson is referencing in his speech, and Hamilton jerks his thoughts away from Thomas on his knees performing another sacrament to Hamilton’s dick and answers the question, and after that it’s easier to listen to the sheer fuckwittery spewing forth from Jefferson’s mouth and mentally adjust his own rebuttal accordingly, and by the time Jefferson finally leans back in his chair with a snotty “And if you don’t know, now you know, Mr. President,” Hamilton is good and angry and more than ready to lay waste to Thomas’s arguments.

“You must be out of your _goddamn mind_ if you think…” he begins, then lays out his counterargument, carefully dismantling everything Jefferson had said and laying bare all its failings and inaccuracies. He can see Washington swaying, coming to side with Hamilton, and Jefferson--is Jefferson _smirking_? Smirking and _typing_?

Hamilton keeps talking while he glances down at the new message flashing on his screen, from Jefferson this time. “Should we honor our treaty, King Louis’s head?” he says as he clicks to open the message.

 **T. Jefferson:** So do you usually say my name when you come? Or is that just on special occasions?

“Uh,” Hamilton says, all rational thought leaching away from him and retreating back to the wooden booth from the night before and the perfect mouth on the other side of it, doing the timeline math at last and realizing that Jefferson was missing in action from the office at the same time that Hamilton was getting blown in the back room of a club just down the street. He scrambles for something coherent and France-related to say, because he can’t lose such an important verbal battle just because Thomas’s eyes are twinkling at him from across the table, just because Thomas is running his tongue over his bottom lip, just because _Thomas Jefferson gave him a spectacular, brain-melting blow job_ the night before.

But everyone is staring at Hamilton now, so he scrounges up a lame finish to his blistering take-down. “Uh, do whatever you want, I’m super dead?”

And then Washington is interrupting, miraculously taking Hamilton’s side despite his blunder at the end of the speech, and Hamilton takes a deep breath as he tries to come up with something to say in response to such an earthshattering revelation.

 **A. Hamilton:** Only when you swallow.

“Hamilton!” Washington’s voice booms, and Hamilton snaps his eyes up to the President’s. “Draft a statement of neutrality.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says, caught between preening at having won the argument even though Jefferson had such a tactical advantage and melting into a puddle of lust-laced embarrassment on the floor. The meeting disperses until it’s just Hamilton and Jefferson at the table, Hamilton staring at the polished wood and ignoring the flashing on his screen for as long as possible.

“I’m bigger,” Thomas murmurs, his voice low and rough, a perfect match to the soft _damn_ from the night before. “I can show you tonight.”

Hamilton sputters and looks up, meeting Thomas’s eyes for the barest second before Jefferson stands up and snaps his laptop closed, shooting Hamilton one last smirk before he disappears back into his office.

Hamilton takes in a deep, shaking breath and looks down at his screen, clicks to open the newest message.

 **T. Jefferson:** Door code to my apartment is 72148. Do some jaw-stretches before you get there. You’ll need them.


End file.
